Strictly Murder (8 page)

"Umm …"

"What?"

"The estate agent didn't find her."

"Oh? How would you know that?"

I took a deep breath. I felt I owed Jim and could trust him not to splash my name all over the Gazette.

"Because I did."

"What? Found her? My God! What an exclusive."

Jim's face lit up before assuming a baffled look.

"But I thought it was an estate agent."

"Where did you get that idea from?"

"The police, I suppose. I think it was in their press release."

I took a chair at the wooden table in the centre of the room, waiting for Jim to join me while I digested the fact that Inspector Farish had, thankfully, withheld my name.

"I was viewing the house, Jim, with a member of staff from Knight's. He stayed downstairs taking a phone call. I was the one who actually made the discovery."

"Oh, Verity, how awful. I'm sorry for that comment about an exclusive. You probably don't want to talk about it."

He tried to look contrite but couldn't quite mask his disappointment. I took pity on him.

"It's OK, Jim. Though I'd rather my name isn't splashed all over your paper."

"Absolutely, Verity." He ran a hand through his pale hair. "You have my word on that."

So, I told him everything I could about my unwelcome discovery of Jaynee Johnson's body. I only gave him the facts and drew the line at the 'human interest' side of things.

"No, sorry, Jim. 'How did I feel?' is not a question I'm prepared to discuss with the readers of the Crofterton Gazette. What business is it of theirs how I feel? Beside, it's a stupid question."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise but I was in full rant mode now and carried on regardless.

“
How do you think I felt? How would you have felt?” I jabbed a finger in his direction.

“
Gosh! Well, nice to know that age hasn't mellowed you any, Verity.”

He laughed and
realising
how I must have sounded, I laughed with him.

"Be sensible, Jim. Anyway, I've given you what I can."

"Thanks, Verity, and I'm no end grateful. My editor is going to love me for this."

He grinned boyishly before leaving me to go back to the office with his story, promising to return as soon as possible in order to lock up.

For the next hour or so I worked feverishly through the archives, searching out the cases that I thought would interest KD. I'd just finished when he re-appeared.

"That's good timing," I said, arching my back after so long poring over microfiches and the computer terminal.

He gave my shoulders a friendly rub.

"All set?"

"Yes, thanks, Jim. I've got what I need. Now I'm ready for some fresh air."

We parted as we'd met, on the library steps and promised to keep in touch.

I turned into the drive leading up to KD's house, Bishop Lea, well pleased with my morning's work. I had only found two cases between 1985 and 1990 that I considered would be of interest to KD - a murder in 1986 and the disappearance of a schoolgirl during the summer of 1990 - but the news reports of the time had supplied enough facts and figures, as well as acres of righteous editorial, to allow my employer to put some fictional flesh on these few remains.

I let myself in with my key, dropped my bag and notebook on my desk in the empty office then ambled through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and a sandwich. KD's kitchen was so vast you could die of starvation between the fridge and the sink. I reckoned it covered the same square footage as my entire flat. The same might be said of the rest of the house. There wasn't a small room in the place, even the loo could accommodate a cocktail party for 25 people.

KD allowed me free run of the place, including the kitchen and its contents so, while I waited for the kettle to boil, I buttered a couple of slices of bread - fortunately my boss hated imitation butter, those spreads that claim a taste they don't possess, as much as I did - slapped a thick piece of ham between them and dropped a tea bag into a mug.

I'd just finished when her dark head appeared round the door.

"So you're back, are you? Thought I heard you. How did you get on this morning?"

"Not bad," I replied, brushing crumbs from my mouth. "I think I've found a couple of things that you could use. The details are on my pad in the office."

When I'd eaten my lunch and we were both at our desks, I gave her the gist of my morning's work.

"The first involves a local farmer who killed his wife and fed her to the pigs."

KD made a moue of distaste—for a crime writer she can be remarkably squeamish.

"And the second is the case of a disappearing school girl, though that mystery remains unsolved."

KD's eyes lit up.

"Excellent. I can have Agnes solve it any way I like. Tell me more."

I looked down at my pad.

"Charlotte Neal, a fourteen year old from Darrington, disappeared in broad daylight on a summer's evening in 1990 whilst returning home from a friend's house."

"And she was never found?"

"No. Full police investigation, TV and poster appeals, searches, the lot. Nothing. No trace of her, whether alive or dead, ever found."

"Excellent!" KD said again, clapping her hands together. "That's the one we go for."

"OK. So, what do you want me to do?"

She thought for a moment, leaning back in the chair and swivelling from side to side.

"I'll need you to go out to Darrington and get me a feel for the place. The sort of area it is, the house the girl lived in and so on. Also, what facilities were provided for youngsters, you know, playgrounds, youth clubs, all that stuff. When did you say this happened?"

"1990."

"Only twenty years ago, so there may still be people around who remember it, remember the girl and what she was like. See if you can find any and talk to them. Neighbours perhaps, or shopkeepers. What did they think of the family or the girl herself - and don't forget the friend and her family, ask about them too - and what did everybody think happened."

I scribbled all this down.

"Then check with the police. See if you can find out who was in charge of the investigation."

"Detective Chief Inspector George Plover," I supplied. The Crofterton Gazette had named and quoted him several times, to start with in full page articles under hyperbolic headlines such as 'How Could This Happen?' and 'Agony of the Waiting Parents', before they'd lost interest in a vanishing girl and a case going nowhere and turned their attention elsewhere.

"Right." The ideas and questions were still pouring out of KD as she went on, "Find out if he's still alive and go and interview him. It would be helpful to have the police's take on this. You know the sort of thing; did they think she'd been murdered, kidnapped or … or,"

"Went of her own accord?" I suggested.

KD smiled.

"Precisely. But first, type up your notes and let me have them, please."

I spent the rest of the afternoon doing just that, as well as checking through the phone book for the Neals and the family of Charlotte's friend, Kimberley Hughes. I found no trace of the Neals at their former address, hardly surprising perhaps, but there was an A. Hughes still listed at 122 Conway Drive. I tried the number but got no reply. Turning my attention to the policeman, I found a G. Plover on Main Street in Harcourt and dialled again. Bingo! Right first time. Mr Plover, who had reached the heights of Detective Chief Superintendent before he retired, or so he told me, was more than happy to see me once I'd explained who I was and what I wanted. Arranging to call on him the following morning, I replaced the receiver then returned the directory to the bookcase of reference works that stood beside the door and took down the map of the Crofterton area. Mr Plover's address was easy to find—he lived in the next village to mine and had a cottage on the main road. The two addresses in Darrington I located quickly from the gazetteer. Then, with no little difficulty and a lot of bad language on my part together with shouted instructions from the far side of KD's desk, which were totally inaccurate and no use at all, I battled with refolding the map.

"Right. That's me finished for the day unless there's anything else you want me to do?"

It was nearly six o'clock already.

"Did I hear you make an appointment with the Inspector chappie?"

"Plover, yes. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Is that OK?"

"Fine. I'll see you when you get here. Have a good evening."

"You too. 'Bye."

Perched on my favourite stool in the wine bar that evening, I decided it was time to go home; I could do with an early night and the place was beginning to fill up. I glanced around at the crowd and suddenly changed my mind. Stepping out of one of the booths at the back of the room came Greg Ferrari! The first thing I noticed about him was his height. He was about a head taller than anyone else in the place and seemed to tower over them as if on stilts. I had a momentary flight of fancy at the idea of him dancing on giant platform boots, before glancing down at his footwear. Even at this distance they appeared to be made of hand-tooled leather. Ten to one they were Italian and specially made and shipped over for him. Given how much money he must be making out of
Star Steps
no doubt he could afford to buy them by the boat-load. The suit too looked Italian, superbly tailored with sharp lapels, waist darts and buttons that were probably hand-crafted on the banks of the Arno by some dark haired, oval-eyed maiden. He filled it immaculately from broad shoulders to narrow hips. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no expert on
men's
fashions - or even
women's
for that matter - but Greg Ferrari just oozed class, style and money. He moved, not unnaturally, like a dancer with a lithe cat-like grace. He was on the prowl, that was for sure. More surprisingly he was prowling in my direction.

“
Hello. Didn't I see you at the studios yesterday afternoon?”

Had he? I hadn't seen him - and believe me I would have noticed him, if I'd done so.

I could have jet-skied off the plane of his cheek bones, his eyes were like molten chocolate. I wanted to dive right in and lap it all up. I held his deep brown gaze for a moment, wishing I was ten years younger, before I snapped out of my fantasies.

“
Well I was there." I admitted. "So, perhaps you did.”